Atonement
by yesterdayschild4
Summary: Hermione has almost forgotten her world but one person has not forgotten her. DHr. Chaptered fic.
1. To Call Down Evil Upon

Title: Atonement  
Part: Prologue. I'm thinking it'll be about five parts. I have the first part almost written and I think it'll be ready to post by tomorrow night... work allowing.  
Author: Edie  
Summary: Hermione has all but forgotten her world and it seems that only one person remembers her.  
Rating: R, for later chapters.  
Disclaimer: Do I own? No, I think not. Do I wish I did? I think so.

**Prologue: To Call Down Evil Upon**

The night was cold. From underneath the security of his borrowed Invisibility Cloak, the man shifted his weight and blew a puff of air out in defiance of the weather. He was small, stooped, and almost completely unnoticeable, a trait that had gotten him far in life. He almost did not need the Cloak but Master had insisted. Master always insisted. "This one is smart," he'd say, "She'll catch you."

It was almost three am and the man's feet were growing tired. He thought to himself irritably that he was getting too old for this; that he should be home with his wife complaining about the aches in his joints in front of a particularly warm and cozy fire. But Master paid him well and he was not in a position to quibble. Master would listen to his complaints and find weakness and the man could not afford to be without a job.

It was almost three am and she would be along soon. Sighing, he stared at the apartment building across the street, a four storied affair that was so unremarkable as to be downright drab. It was nothing like Master's home and the man couldn't figure out _why_ anything to do with it should interest him. But the man did not bother to debate that for long either. It was not his place.

It had been ten months and he knew almost everything about her, probably more than he ever bothered to learn about his own wife. He liked to think he was the best money could buy; that there was nothing and no one he could not track. He had suggested that to Master once and only once, only to be laughed at and ridiculed. Could he possibly have thought he was Master's _first_ choice? The man took a moment to remind himself once again that he was well paid for his pains.

At three fifteen a taxicab pulled up in front of the building and, after a few moments during which the occupant of the taxi had obviously spent paying for her fare, the door opened and she got out, just as he had known she would. It had been the same for the whole entire time he had spent watching her. Same shift at the all night diner a ten minute taxi ride away. Every day she would leave her flat at exactly 6:05 pm and every morning she would return at 3:15. He thought to himself scornfully that she was too _easy_. No challenge for the likes of him.

Once he had been inside of her flat. He had tried to Apparate in, sure it would please Master, only to discover that the bloody chit had put up some kind of ward all around her flat. But he was not the best for a lack of resourcefulness and had simply entered it the Muggle way: he had pried open a window she had left cracked and wandered easily in. 

Her flat had been dull and poorly decorated. He thought the whole thing was beneath Master and so had dug deeper. In her bedroom, he had discovered a trunk full of tattered Daily Prophets and a stack of letters almost entirely unread, except for one from a Ronald Weasley that had been poured over almost to complete ruination. At the very bottom, she had hidden pictures of her friends… of Weasley and his sister, Potter, and a smiling girl the man did not recognize. 

He had thought Master would be pleased with details of the trunk but he hadn't been. The man shuddered thinking on his anger; on the rants about invading her privacy and being too daft to know when to leave well enough alone. The man had been confused. Was following her not an invasion of her privacy in and of itself? He had been too wise, of course, to voice that opinion to Master. Too wise and too scared, for every one in the wizarding world knew that his master had been very close to You-Know-Who. The man did not know how Master had evaded the Dementor's Kiss at the end of the War and secretly thought that he had perhaps bribed the Ministry.

Master was not to be trusted and every one knew that as well.

Master liked to know other things about the girl, however, and those were easy to observe. She had no friends as far as he could discern and could almost always be found holed up inside of her flat. The shades were almost always drawn but once or twice she had forgotten and he had been able to observe her sitting in what he remembered to be the living room, wrapped up in a quilt and doing nothing but staring.

The man thought to himself that the girl was pathetic; that spying on some Muggle was pathetic but, well… he had already realized how lucrative his job was.

Tonight was important, Master had told him. The anniversary of the death of her mother or some such. From the shadows of the alley, he could tell that the girl was affected. She seemed more tired than usual tonight and had trouble getting her key into the door properly. That afternoon she had left earlier and he had followed her to a cemetery some distance away from her flat. She had cried in front of the tombstone for an hour before quietly leaving for that dingy diner she spent so much time at. Had tripped near the gate on the way out.

_Pathetic._

The Muggle was below his Master, that much he knew. Would never actually _say_ it of course because things like that simply were not said anymore. The War might have ended four years ago but people still listened. It would not do to talk.

The girl entered her building after a moment's agitation and he sighed. Counted to one hundred underneath his breath before moving to stand in the alley directly below her window. He pulled the Cloak tighter to himself, wishing it was the sort that provided warmth, and prepared himself for a long evening of staring at her blinds.

There were things Master wanted to know and he was certainly the best man to deliver that information.


	2. Sad Enough To Sting

Title: Atonement  
Part: 1?. 3901 words, so rather lengthy.  
Author: Edie  
Summary: Hermione has all but forgotten her world but has her whole world forgotten her? A post Hogwarts fic.  
Rating: R, for later chapters.  
Disclaimer: Do I own? No, I think not. Do I wish I did? I think so. The sonnet I blatantly stole the title for this chapter from is Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Pain in Pleasure."

**Chapter One: Sad Enough to Sting**

_Oh, entertain (cried Reason, as she woke,)  
Your best and gladdest thoughts but long enough  
And they will all prove sad enough to sting. _

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Pain in Pleasure"

The first thing Draco Malfoy was aware of upon awakening was the scent of pine, unusually strong but familiarly bitter- a smell that made him think of fast approaching winter and long ago walks through woods that he had never really gone on. He could smell dirt as well, earthy and so close to his face that he scrunched his already closed eyes up even tighter. They were nice smells, comforting for some reason, and…

Then Draco Malfoy woke up entirely and shot up in bed, thinking _Merlin, not again_.

But Merlin was not listening to him tonight and, though the realization made him feel overwhelmingly nauseous, it _had_ happened again. Frantic now, he looked towards his clock and blinked at the hour. 3:15 in the morning. What did he remember last? Important things, the thoughts he could not quite grasp. Telling himself to breathe, he concentrated and recalled irritation over not being able to find a house elf to fetch him something hot to drink. That had been… when? Around 11:30, by his reckoning.

In the dark, Draco sucked in a deep breath. It had been almost four hours this time. Four bloody hours that he could not account for; four bloody hours he seemed to have spent rolling around in a forest somewhere if the state of his clothes and his sheets- bloody sodding hell, his beautiful, expensive, _satin_ sheets- was any indication. Panicking, he leaped out of bed and groped around through the blackness of his bedroom for his wand.

_What if, what if_ and his brain wouldn't shut the hell up, only he was sure he had his wand here somewhere. Never before had he left it behind doing… whatever it was he did and this time _couldn't_ be the exception… could it? But no. There, on his bedside table. Letting out something that was dangerously close to a squeal of relieved glee, he grasped onto it and muttered a quick, "_Lumos_."

It was worse than he thought. His clothes were absolutely ruined beyond repair. His sheets were fixable, he supposed, but… _where_ had he been? And, almost more importantly, _what_ had he been doing? Not knowing made him feel strangely hysterical.

Strangely hysterical and bloody well mad, in all actuality.

Pressing his fingers to his temples (fingernails full of dirt and _how_?), Draco looked around his bedroom as if in a daze. It was all going wrong, that much was clear. Everything he had spent the last four years working for was about to come crashing down around him if he started to… started to seem _off_. There were too many people watching; too many people waiting for something just like this to happen.

Swearing, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants, only to whip them out at lightning speed. Carefully, oh so cautiously, he stuck his left one back in, felt his fingers brush against thin cardboard and-

A pack of cigarettes? A pack of _Muggle_ cigarettes? Expensive cigars he could understand. But smoking was a filthy habit- a filthy Muggle habit, no less- and was one that he absolutely did not abide. Not only did the whole idea of it disgust him, it seemed to announce a blatant weakness in the manner of a big blinking sign that proclaimed, "Look at me! I can't cope!"

In the pocket of his bloody pants, no less!

He stared at them dumbly for a moment or two, wondering why his breathing picked up looking at them; why his head throbbed a little. Then, before Draco knew what was what, he had one out and in his mouth and his breathing was normal and his head felt fine and-

And he wasn't coughing or spluttering. He had done this before. They were _his_ cigarettes. Somewhere, in the countless hours he couldn't remember, he had gone to some horrible Muggle place, purchased them, and…

And it was all too much for Draco. He collapsed on his bed with a confused expletive and stared up at the ceiling in abject dismay. He wondered how long he had before he would disappear entirely and this _thing_, this terrible unknown part of him, took over and made him pay for the choices he had made? Made _others_ pay, even if Draco didn't care for them so much as a means to an end for himself? And he didn't, he told himself firmly.

Still smoking (_put it out, put it out, put it out, you weak little nothing!_), he shut his eyes as tightly as he could and told himself to concentrate. To not let go.

* * *

3:15 in the morning in Muggle London two days after the anniversary of the death of her mother, and Hermione Granger was almost certain that she was being watched. It was a feeling she couldn't explain but all the same she paid the taxi driver in a rush and all but fled to the door of her building. Her feet refused to slow until she was safely on the other side of the glass door. There, she paused and gazed out into the night.

Nothing. No one. But a feeling all the same.

"Buck up, Hermione," she lectured herself, laughing thinly, "You are going to be seeing Death Eaters lurking in the shadows for the rest of your life. Might as well get used to it."

All the same, she cast one look over her shoulder before hitting the stairs.

Her flat was on the second floor and, tonight, each step felt like murder on her feet. There were only 21 steps for her to climb but her thighs screamed in protest and never before had she hated her work shoes quite so much. Kicking them off would be the second thing she would do after entering her flat; first she paused in her dark entrance way, absolutely still, and listened.

It had been two weeks since she had felt it; since she had come home and sensed beyond a reason of a doubt that her flat had been disturbed. Crookshanks, old and grumpy now, had seemed especially so and her trunk… The pictures were not where they had been before and…

Images of Death Eaters, cloaked and hooded, float terrifyingly through her mind. Waiting. Always waiting.

Hermione paused and Hermione listened for a full minute before relieving her feet of her shoes and flicking on the lights. Crookshanks was curled in a tight ball on the tattered light pink cushions of her couch; he did little more than glance up at her homecoming. She, however, made a fuss.

"Crookshanks!" she cried, rushing to him and ruffling his fur, despite his meows of protest, "Have you missed me?"

It was imperative to her that he did, of course, because he was all that she had as far as friends went. Sighing to herself, she moved over to smack the button on her answering machine, listening for messages as she moved into her bedroom to change out of her work things. Wryly, she thought it did not say much about the size of her flat that she could still hear it.

"Honey?" Her father. The only person she had ever known who started all of his messages with a question. "Just calling to make sure you got home safely. Text my mobile when you get in."

She had told him about her suspicions, something she regretted sorely the instant it had left her mouth. She should have realized how her father might react and she might have once, back when she was smart enough to be the best Hogwarts had to offer. Now, however, her wand had been snapped in half and disposed of long ago and she had never even learned to legally Apparate, for God's sake, so even that did not-

Babbling. Sighing at herself, she padded to her bed where she had flung her purse and pulled out her mobile. She did not understand her father. What difference did it make if she text messaged him at 3:15 in the morning if he wasn't going to read the message until at least seven anyway? Some head start on her would-be stalker.

She did it anyway and, illogically, felt better.

"Hermione, it's Marnie!" babbled on her answering machine and _God_ but she hated everything about that woman, "Supper on Saturday at 5:00? Say you have it off and that you'll come. It would mean the world to your father. I'll even bake your favourite cookies. Give me a ring, sweetie."

"Stupid bint," she muttered, squirming into pajama bottoms and finding her most comfortable sweatshirt at the bottom of a particularly large stack of clothes that had never quite made it to her hamper. She grabbed her cigarettes off of her bedside table- Hermione Granger from Hogwarts _never_ would have smoked and the Hermione Granger of today smiled evilly at the thought- and made her way back to the living room, disturbing Crookshanks by plopping down onto her couch. A quick visual check reminded her that she had locked the door and drawn the blinds. The stick was still wedged against the sliding door of her balcony. Impossible to open with that there. She sighed again and, cigarette lit, relaxed back into the cushions.

"Dad wants us to move," she told Crookshanks, although she could not quite say whether or not her cat was even listening, "And back in with him too. And _her_."

But Hermione did not want to move and, what was more, she absolutely refused to. She had worked and saved for this flat; had devoted herself with a passion usually saved only for learning to that horrible diner with its pervy clientele and lousy pay and all to get away from _that_ woman and her crazily obsessive cookie baking. Hermione loved her father, she did, but she could not stomach that… that usurper. Or the sight of her father with her, staring at her in the way that he had once reserved entirely for her mother.

After a large row that Hermione was still trying to forget, she and her father had reached a compromise. Her flat had two bedrooms, one that was currently used for little more than a computer room, and her father had agreed to stop badgering her about returning home if she would find herself a flat mate. He would feel better, he had said, with someone with her. Marnie had beamed at her like an imbecile and chirped, "You'll make friends!"

Practically growling now, Hermione ashed her cigarette rather vehemently. Like she needed friends, anyway. Hermione had had friends once and friendships _hurt_.

But she was not thinking about that now. She was thinking about the ad she had called in one week ago; the ad that should make its appearance in tomorrow morning's paper. It was all she could do not to bite her fingernails, dwelling on it. What if the person did not respect her privacy? What if they snooped through her room and found her trunk? How would she explain her wizarding photos? She wouldn't. She couldn't. She didn't _want_ a bloody flat mate.

But that wasn't all that upset Hermione. If she was being watched- and for some unknown reason she was quite certain that that was the case- what if the very person she let in was the one who was spying on her? The thought sent shivers racing up and down her spine and she stood up rather abruptly. Paced towards the window and peaked out through a crack in her blinds.

Still nothing. The street was almost empty, except for the occasional car. Calling herself a fool, she returned to the couch and tried to relax. Turned on the television and tried to concentrate on the late night shows. Babbled to Crookshanks until her mouth was dry.

And still, it wouldn't go away. Try as she might, Hermione couldn't shake the thought that something was not _right_.

* * *

A Muggle newspaper on Malfoy's desk and those confounded cigarettes. Later now or earlier depending on one's perspective. Almost 4:30 in the morning.

It had been nearly a week since the last debacle and he had thought he was doing just fine… until last night. Not that bad, in comparison, a mere forty minutes of lost control or forty minutes of hell for a control freak like Draco.

Three days after the Four Hour Ordeal, he had decided quite rationally that his episodes only occurred when he was asleep. He had toyed with the idea of his black holes being the result of some complicated form of sleepwalking. He had toyed with a lot of ideas and he hadn't slept for more than half an hour at a time since then.

Somehow, it had yet to affect his job cracking codes down at the Ministry. Draco liked that; could sit for hours playing with number patterns and strange letter formations. It was a sequence. It was controlled and, most importantly, if he concentrated _he could figure it out_. It was imperative that no one there suspected anything and he knew a charm or two that could make him appear refreshed, even if he hadn't gotten more than five hours of sleep in just as many days.

For a brief moment, he wished for Snape. For anybody really. But they were gone and he was alone in this Manor, which up until now had never seemed so huge or offensively empty. He wasn't afraid of it exactly- Malfoy wasn't afraid of very much- but its empty corridors and sprawling rooms did fill him with a sense of unease.

He was alone and going crazy.

Chain smoking like a disgusting Muggle too. Really.

His eyes alighted on the newspaper on his desk in passing. He had discovered it there after the Forty Minute Ordeal and had been loathe to look at it. His first instinct, in fact, had been to chuck it into the fire and cackle as it burned. However, only people who were completely off their bird cackled so Draco chose not to do that. He had glanced at it warily and had started in surprise to see what his… that other… half of him had been reading.

Wanted ads. And that… thing inside of him had circled one that requested a quiet and private flat mate. Please respond to Hermione Granger.

Hermione fucking Granger, Mudblood extraordinaire, she who had vanished off the face of the planet at the very start of the War, once upon a time friend of Potty, lover of the Weasel, whatever you wanted to call her-

_alone and big eyed and bloody hell but she looked about to cry_

- was looking for a flat mate.

He knew the sob story, of course, even if it made him feel uncomfortable dwelling on it for reasons he did not want to ponder. Everybody at Hogwarts that year had heard her sob story. Mother killed in one of the first attacks, an attack that had been mirrored on the Weasley family that same day. It had been a blatant attempt to frighten off Hermione and Ron and, surprisingly, she had fallen for it. He had expected better of her, of course. He could admit that. All the same, two months later she had run home to Daddy and had refused to answer any owls sent to her. Just up and left, without even a word to her precious sodding friends.

The whole thing disgusted him- such _weakness_- except for the fact that-

But no. He didn't want to go there, not now. Not ever if he could help it.

Draco could not say why after seeing the ad he did not simply burn the thing (minus the cackling, of course. Malfoys were not crazy and did not cackle). Maybe it was smug pride. Wouldn't Potty just _die_ to know that his precious little Granger was holed up in London and looking for a flat mate? Knowledge was power, after all, and the realization that he had it almost made Malfoy giddy.

Or maybe it was something else. Maybe he simply remembered how annoyingly _smart_ Granger had been. Maybe he thought of empty corridors and Malfoy Manor and the sorry state of his life and thought she might have the answer. Maybe it was none of those things at all but, all the same, he did not burn it.

* * *

Two weeks after posting her ad, Hermione found herself wasting her day off by sitting in the corner of her bedroom, wrapped in her mother's quilt, and doing nothing but sniveling. She had been having a pretty good go of it, having already been at it for almost three hours. If maybe her mother's quilt still smelled of her perfume… if maybe she was different, a little warmer perhaps and a little less know-it-all… if maybe her flat wasn't so bloody _ugly_ and mismatched…

If she had ever been able to make _friends_ like a normal person! It didn't seem fair to her that she should only ever have had two but, then, it did in a sick way as well. She didn't deserve friends. She didn't deserve anything.

Miserably, she lit a cigarette and blew her nose before huddling down deeper into her quilt and willing herself to just _die_. Even Crookshanks seemed to be avoiding her and-

And no way in hell was she about to answer the telephone mid sob. What bloody awful timing. She hoped it wasn't about her ad. In truth, Hermione was not up to interviewing one more candidate. Turned out in her new (old now, wasn't it?) lack of magic state, she was a lot more of a bitch and a lot less… trusting. Not one of them had measured up and she thought her father was close to moving in with her. Which would be fine for awhile, comforting even, if he would leave Marnie at his house.

"Answer the phone, you bleeding machine!" she yelled in the general direction of her living room, "I'm not getting off of this floor! I'm _crying_!"

Fate was out to get her, she decided. Was her answering machine broken? Seemed unlikely but all the same it wasn't _working_. Huffing to herself, Hermione stood up a little unsteadily and, still holding her cigarette, padded towards the telephone. She cast a grouchy glance about her living room, discovered bitterly that Crookshanks was hiding behind her couch, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" God, she sounded like she'd been crying too.

"Hi, may I speak to Hermione Granger please?" A woman's voice. Pleasant and soft. Older, Hermione decided.

"Speaking." She would not blow her nose on the phone, no matter how much she had to. And she wouldn't sniff, either. Her mother had taught her better than that.

"Hello, Miss Granger. I'm Penny Lexington and I'm calling to inquire after the ad you'd placed? The one requesting a flat mate?"

There was a man's voice in the background, saying something that Hermione could not discern. He sounded exasperated but Penny Lexington sounded calm and her voice was oddly comforting. It was because of that that she didn't sound as frustrated as she felt when she said, "Did you want to see it?"

Penny Lexington did and it only seemed to get better after that. Penny Lexington was a librarian, she explained, much to Hermione's unabashed delight. She hoped Hermione was not too loud as she enjoyed time to quietly read; hoped that Hermione did too. They had discussed rent and had set up an appointment to view her flat at 12:00 on the day after next, a time that made Hermione cringe as she was still stuck on nights at the diner.

When Hermione hung up the phone, she was strangely uplifted and optimistic. Her mood was, in fact, so improved by this woman who sounded almost like a kindred spirit that she shed her quilt, put out her cigarette, and went out post haste to get a second key for her flat cut.

* * *

At exactly 11:35 two days later, there was a knock on Hermione's front door.

She was in the bathroom, trying to tame her unruly tangle of hair in order to make an organized appearance, and balked at the sound of it. 11:35! She appreciated people who were on time, really she did, but twenty five minutes was pushing it a little even for her. So agitated by this was she that she did not think about how Penny Lexington might have gotten into her building. She didn't think about the horrible niggling feeling she had had lately of being watched. She only thought of how _embarrassing_ to be caught by such a literary person still wearing her pajama bottoms and with her hair… well, being _normal_ really. How embarrassing and how utterly irritating, she thought as she made her way to the door.

Grumbling to herself and still pushing at her hair, she flipped open the lock and turned the knob, only to stumble back in abject shock.

There was no cheery librarian on her doorstep and apparently Death Eaters _did_ still lurk in the shadows because there before her was none other than Lucius Malfoy.

Shock froze Hermione. For one horrible second, she could not move. She could not think. Vaguely, she acknowledged the fact that without her wand there was very little she could do against such a man, unless she could run to her bedroom, grab her purse, and find her pepper spray. And what was pepper spray to a Death Eater? He would curse her and-

_had her mother screamed? Was there pain?_

-the last thing she would see in this world would be the cruel smirk taunting her from his pointed face. What would happen when her father found out?

Where had all of her Gryffindor courage gone? It was like it had never existed, washed all away in one atrocious evening six years earlier. Hermione's knees were perilously close to knocking together. Oh, if _only_ she had her wand and-

And when had Lucius Malfoy cut his hair? Was it her imagination or had he somehow grown taller? Leaner? _Younger_? Which was precisely when her fear addled brain cleared enough to remember one important fact gleaned from the Daily Prophets she had secretly read during the War: Lucius Malfoy had fallen one year into it in a spectacular raid on Malfoy Manor. It had been a turning point, really, so many Death Eaters all in one place and-

Wasn't there a point to this? Shaking her head, Hermione came to a horrible realization… a realization that was sneering at her in a way she hadn't seen in over half a decade. Not Lucius Malfoy at all but-

"Six years, Granger," in a voice as supremely indifferent as ever, "and you still haven't managed to get that god awful hair under control."

**TBC…**

And that is all she wrote for this half, ladies and gentlemen. :) I have a very long and dull shift tomorrow so I'll probably be bad and write more at work. guilty smile Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reviewing on the prologue!


	3. Faith Unfaithful

Title: Atonement  
Part: 2  
Author: Edie  
Summary: Hermione has all but forgotten her world but has her whole world forgotten her? A post Hogwarts fic. Or, more chapter specific: Draco is one persistent little bugger and the joke is on Hermione.  
Rating: R, for later chapters.  
Disclaimer: Do I own? No, I think not. Do I wish I did? I think so.  
Author's Notes: Branched away a little from my "mystery" in this chapter. Wanted some interaction. What can I say! Thank you as well for all of the positive feedback! blushes

**Chapter Two: Faith Unfaithful**

_"His honour rooted in dishonour stood,  
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true."_

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

"Six years, Granger," in a voice as supremely indifferent as ever, "and you still haven't managed to get that god awful hair under control."

Hermione wasted a few precious seconds gawking at Draco Malfoy- Draco Malfoy at her bloody door!- before doing something that she hadn't done in years. Thinking about it later on, she would give herself a pat on the back for still being somewhat of a Gryffindor; for still having enough stones to _do_ something. In reality, however, Hermione simply panicked and slammed the door right in his cruelly smirking face.

Heart pounding (_Son of a Death Eater! The Malfoy Manor Massacre! Son of a Death Eater! Holy bloody fuck, he was going to **kill** her!_), she pushed her palm hard against the door and fumbled with the lock. Had it always been so hard to grasp? Why were her hands shaking? _Why_ had she chucked her wand? Should have known they'd come for her, that they would never forget about her and her family and-

On the other side of her door, Malfoy let out a particularly harsh curse. She paused for a fraction of a second in harried surprise. It was all he needed. In her hand, the doorknob wrenched violently from the outside and before she knew what was what, he had thrown his weight against it and she found herself wedged between the wall and the door, effectively winded by the bloody doorknob and with a throbbing shoulder to boot. All of which paled in comparison, of course, to the fact that Malfoy used her momentary lapse to waltz into her flat as casually as if he owned the place.

Hermione wasn't casual. Hermione didn't feel casual at all. Her brain was spinning almost faster than she could keep up with, which wasn't anything new really. But _what_ it was spinning with! She hadn't thought of it in a direct way in years or not as a face to face here's your reality wake up call anyway. Over and over, Death Eaters whirled through her imagination and Malfoy had _always_ hated her. She wanted her wand; she wished she could call one single spell to mind that didn't require one. Six years ago, she could have taken her pick. Now, however, she knew exactly how much bacon and eggs cost, how long it would take to the second to cash out at work, every single way to make a tip and _he was going to kill her_!

Panicking still, she pushed the door off of her and grabbed the first thing she could reach: the remote control off of the side table near her door. She brandished it at him- how very threatening!- and tried to shake in menacingly.

"Get the bloody hell out of my flat, Malfoy!" Cringing because less with the hysteria, more with the force. "I'll brain you with this, see if I don't!"

Malfoy, being Malfoy, stared down his nose at her remote and looked beyond bored with her. Rolled his eyes, even.

"Beating me to death with that Muggle contraption?" he asked, "That's less than civil, Granger. Is this how you greet all of your old friends?"

The fact that he could still get a rise out of her after so many years only made her angrier.

"Get out. I have surprisingly good aim with this, Malfoy. Or would you prefer to be reintroduced to my fist?"

Which she didn't entirely mean, of course, because then she would have to leave the corner she most certainly wasn't cowering in.

He sighed and stared at her for a couple seconds, seeming to evaluate the situation. Then, almost because it was expected of him and he did _so_ hate to disappoint, he drew his wand and took a threatening step towards her.

"I could hex you a thousand times over before you even have a chance to move, Granger, and you know it."

She did know it. Hence the cowering. And she didn't mean to cower even more at the sight of his wand, really she didn't, but it had been so long since she had faced the business end of one and, well, wasn't that earlier burst of Gryffindor courage/panic from seconds ago a false front? Couldn't help but press against the wall a little more; couldn't stop herself from looking away from his wand. Malfoy would do it, she thought. Malfoy had always hated her and his eyes were as cold as ever.

Shutting her own, she mumbled, "I don't allow magic in my flat."

And that was the end of it. Draco watched her shoulders slump and watched her wait for the inevitable hex and found himself so disgusted by the whole thing that he actually put down his wand. What was the fun in riling up Hermione Granger if she wouldn't fight back? And had he ever seen anything more pathetic than the sight of his once nemesis in ugly pajama pants trying to get up close and personal with her living room wall? He scoffed.

"You can open up your eyes, idiot," he barked, a strange sort of disappointment adding more venom to his tone that he had intended, "Living among the common riffraff has obviously rotted your silly little brain. I'm hardly here to kill you; even hexing you isn't any fun with you whimpering in the corner. Although you being so honestly afraid of me _is_ giving me a surprising rush."

She did open her eyes at that and he was perversely pleased to see that that remark had at least hit home.

"I'm hardly scared of you, you irritating little-"

"Ferret? Really, Granger."

Hermione huffed at that and raised the remote control again. "Get out."

He took a step farther inwards and cocked an eyebrow.

"Get out!" she repeated, starting to feel like a broken record. Lord, how she wanted to _hurl_ the thing at his obnoxious head, except how could she afford to fix it if it broke? "I don't want you here, Malfoy. I don't want anything to do with you and your murdering-"

He cut her off by sighing exasperatedly and flicking open his robes. She started in confusion and opened her mouth to continue on when he pushed up the sleeve of his sweater. She was baffled for a moment, a sensation that she _did not like_; then she realized that she was staring at a bare unmarked forearm and understood.

"I expected more of you," he was saying, "Did you honestly think your side would have let me live after the war if it was any other way?"

Hermione wanted to ask him a million questions. Wanted to know about the raid on the Manor; wanted to know how he had managed to worm his way out of some sort of punishment. Longed to know where he had stood then-

_hand on her back, books shoved in her face, and, "Are you crying? Merlin, Granger! Where's Potty and the Weasel?"_

-and where he stood now.

Instead, she lowered the blasted remote and said, "Why are you here?"

Malfoy looked around her flat in one great big sweeping moment of observation.

"Thought that might have been obvious as well. I'm here about your ad, of course." Then, aristocratic nose all bunched up, "Merlin, it _smells_ like poverty in here."

She started at that and was about to snap that it did _not_. But then… well… she supposed that it did have a certain older used sort of aroma to it and _how_ embarrassing! Irritably, she glanced around her flat and saw it as Malfoy might: off white paint peeling on the walls, stained carpet, beaten up couch that did not quite match her colour scheme and… and _ashtray_ on the coffee table. Not that she cared what Malfoy thought of it but-

He must have trailed her gaze because he said, "Don't worry about it, Granger. I smoke too" and seemed surprised at himself. Followed it up with, "Do all Muggles of an age with us live in such hovels?"

Hermione didn't have a ready comment for that because _Malfoy_ as a smoker? For the first time, she looked at him hard. He looked pretty much the same, she thought. Impossibly pale hair, falling just past his shoulders in what he obviously considered to be the height of Malfoy fashion. Same biting cobalt gaze. He was taller now, that was true, and more filled out, less of a boy and more of a young man. His robes were of an excellent quality, not that she'd been expecting any less. Same old Malfoy all around except-

Except he looked _different_ in a way she couldn't quite pin point. And not well, either. His eyes were lined with bags, surprisingly dark against his skin, and he seemed… well, held together by a thin thread in all honesty. Not for the first time since seeing him, she wondered just what had happened to him in the last six years.

Then, "My _ad_? Are you crazy?"

He blinked at that and actually looked a little taken aback. She thought he might interject a comment so she rushed on with, "You can't possibly _live_ here! Really, Malfoy, the idea is almost laughable. And, even if it wasn't, I'm going to interview someone else in… oh… about fifteen minutes, so maybe we could cut this impromptu reunion short and never ever reschedule it."

There, her trump card. Malfoy immediately stomped all over it by bursting into laughter.

"Penny Lexington?" he harrumphed, "I think your reputation at Hogwarts was undeserved if you didn't even figure _that_ one out, you daft bint."

Oh God. Hermione thought she might vomit. Voice small, she asked, "You know Penny Lexington?"

"Know her?" and he was scoffing again, "Of course I know her. She's the secretary in my department at the Ministry. Muggleborn so entirely useless but she did know how to use your blasted telephones and quite nicely arranged the whole thing." Smirking, he took on a higher pitched effeminate tone. "Oh, Hermione! I just love libraries! And books! God love them! I can't believe you fell for it."

Neither could she. Abruptly, she felt like crying again. She had _liked_ that lying little sneak of a woman; had cut that bloody key and gotten her hopes all up. And that woman had turned out to by one of Malfoy's lackeys. Un-bloody-believable.

"Get out of my flat," she reiterated, "I don't want you here and you're daft if you think I'll let you move in."

"Why not?" he asked, moving around her living room and poking at her television set cautiously with his wand, "You know I'm good for the rent. I could probably buy this whole building although _why_ anybody would want to do that is beyond me."

Hermione wished Crookshanks would make an appearance and attack her unwanted guest. Ungrateful beast.

Frustrated now, she all but hissed, "_Why_? Don't you have anyone else to bother? I don't want you here! Are you listening to me speak?"

"Have you said anything worth hearing?"

Out of her living room now and into the kitchen. He shuddered at her stained and cracked countertops and prodded at her fridge and the stove with his wand as well. She found it immensely irritating and discovered that it took a great deal of control not to grab it out of his hand and snap it in two.

"My fridge and stove aren't going to attack you," she snapped instead, "Stop touching my stuff with that _thing_."

"It's called a wand, you great big ninny. And how am I supposed to know what you've put a curse on, what with all of your anti-Apparation wards?"

"Pleasure seeing you again," Hermione tried again, through clenched teeth.

Malfoy ignored her entirely, seemingly interested in the way her tap functioned. Lifted the handle with his wand and raised an eyebrow when the water began to run.

"As to why," he began after the sink had lost his interest, "I have many reasons, only one of which concerns you. You might be surprised to know that the name Malfoy does not command as much respect as it once did. I'm sure you've been able to deduce that it is my responsibility to change that. It occurred to me-"

"Now who isn't saying anything worth hearing? Spare me the Malfoy family history."

"-that living amongst… you _people_ for a small amount of time might show the wizarding world that I am not some sort of mini-Death Eater who is going to go all Voldemort on their asses at the first opportunity."

Hermione winced at the name but lifted her chin anyway. "I don't care and I want you to leave."

Malfoy paused by the counter and elegantly arched an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Granger?"

"Yes. I don't give a shit about your situation." But the look in his eyes made her feel the tiniest inklings of fear because she _knew_ Malfoy and she wasn't dumb enough not to sense that the other shoe had yet to drop.

"I think you'll let me stay," he told her, running a fingernail oh so casually along her countertop, "I think you'll only be too happy to help me adjust to life in your world because if you're not I'll tell them all where you are. I'll take out a story in the Prophet; you _know_ they're all dying to see just how far everyone's favourite little Mudblood has fallen. I'll end your anonymous Muggle existence faster than you can blink. You can't even look at my wand. How are you going to handle _that_? Everything you've worked for; everything you've run away from… I'll lead it straight to your door, Granger."

It was like third year all over again. Her feet were moving before she knew it and her arm was raised and-

Malfoy was ready for it this time. He caught her fist effortlessly in his palm.

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed, trying to wrench her hand free.

"Wouldn't I? Bet you wouldn't want to try me."

"Bastard."

He shrugged and let go of her hand so quickly that she almost stumbled. For one horrifying second, she thought he meant to wipe his hands on his robes but what he did was even worse. He _saw_ it resting on top of her stove where she had so optimistically placed it. She was an idiot. The battle was lost and she hadn't even gotten to fight it.

"A spare key?" Malfoy asked, grabbing it up before she could stop him, "How disgustingly hopeful of you."

She lunged at him; once again he proved quicker. Neatly sidestepping her, he stalked calmly to her door and paused before exiting.

"See you in a couple of days, roomie." Then, smirking, he slammed the door in her face.

Hermione stood in front of it for a horrified second; blanched when she heard the pop that signaled his leaving. She should have put that bloody ward everywhere. How short sighted of her. What had she been thinking? Something inane about what if other wizards lived in the building. But _what_ wizard would want to live here anyway? Should have put it everywhere, should have thought ahead, should never have placed that sodding ad, and-

And she wasn't ready for Malfoy or for any of it. She had been safe here, so safe and secluded. She didn't want to see him; didn't want her past dragged up and examined in the light of day. Breathing heavily, she considered her options. She could move out but was there time? She could move back in with her father, but was Malfoy and her past worse than Marnie? She could change her locks but with what money? Fighting the urge to cry, she fell back onto her couch and promptly found her cigarettes.

Wouldn't do, not any of this, and…

… Malfoy _smoked_?

* * *

Later that night and Draco was perched in his favourite chair in the Malfoy library, hot coffee on hand and a book on his lap. He had ran into his mother in the hallway outside of the dining room (handy thing about manors, really. Hadn't seen his mother in weeks) and had told her flightily all about his plans; all about how her precious little son was going to become a Muggle for a few months. He thought now that he really _was_ a bastard, brassing off his mum simply because he _could_ and because-

But he wasn't going there, not tonight or any other night. In fact, he was going to sit in the same chair until the sun rose and nurse his coffee and not go _anywhere_ in any state whatsoever. Nervously, he glanced at the clock and willed his eyes to stay open.

Soon. The realization was staggering but he knew deep within himself that Granger was the only one smart enough to diagnose him… and removed enough from his world that nobody else would ever know. Sure, she seemed to have grown a little dimmer since he had last seen her but that was to be expected. Surely once he forced his presence on her, she would remember that she had once been a smart little witch and find some way to _fix_ him.

The thought that she wouldn't barely even crossed his mind. _He_ was the one who had ruined everything for her; she would never dream of doing such a thing. He only hoped that she was quick enough to discover his problem fast. Malfoy reputation be damned. He wasn't sure how long he could possibly be expected to live in such… _poor_ conditions. Nose in the air, he fluffed up his robes and tried to convince himself that the smell of her flat hadn't drifted out with him.

Malfoy Manor smelled nothing but pristine when he took a deep breath. Pristine and cold. Shuddering, he gulped his coffee and bellowed loudly for a house elf.

Arrangements had to be made. His man had to be contacted. This was certainly a change in plans.

* * *

Hermione spent the next four days completely on edge.

On the first day after Malfoy's unexpected and unwelcome visit, she had frantically begged and pleaded everybody at work whom she got along with even _slightly_ to room with her. She had interviewed two last minute candidates and had even been willing to overlook the fact that she was sure the first looked like a drug dealer and the second a pervert.

On the second day, she considered going to Diagon Alley and owling Harry for assistance. Surely he couldn't possibly hate her as much as Ron…? Surely he was willing to forgive and forget…? Surely one of them would come and save her from big bad Malfoy…? But she was afraid of Diagon Alley; even more afraid of what Harry and Ron might have to say to her and so she had done nothing except for call her dad and complain about her lack of success. What about Penny Lexington, he had asked, and she had almost chucked the bloody phone at the wall.

Day three and she was entirely too frazzled to do much of anything. Had called in sick for work despite her desperate need of money and had spent all day organizing the bookshelf in her bedroom, first by author, then by alphabetical title, then by subject matter. She had tried to read but had ended up rearranging them all again, this time by publishing date.

On day four, she was so out of it at work that she almost lost her job entirely.

By the time she left her flat on day five, Hermione had done a pretty good job of convincing herself that he was not coming. All a game and ha ha but wasn't Draco Malfoy funny! Toying with the silly little Mudblood and making her panic for the better part of a week! All a bloody riot really. She made it through work without messing up a single order; without spilling so much as a drop of coffee on anybody or anything.

3:15 in the morning and Hermione was out of her taxi cab, rushing up the steps of her building and looking this way and that for whoever was out there. Key in the door and up the 21 stairs and all she wanted to do was collapse on her bed and sleep. She was so flooded with relief over Draco Malfoy's big bloody prank that all she wanted to do was sleep for a week and laugh a little at what a fool she'd been to fall for it.

Tripped on Crookshanks near the door and muttered a quick, "Sorry, sweetie" before darting into the bathroom. Didn't notice the fact that her computer had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor by the door to her balcony. Didn't notice that Crookshanks was actually on the couch. Didn't notice anything until she reached for her face cloth in the bathroom and came back with a deliciously soft black towel monogrammed with an elegantly curved M.

Then Hermione noticed everything in a panic, from the perfectly polished shoes she had tripped on to the closed door of her spare bedroom. She stood in the hallway and gawked at it; considered bursting in there and telling Malfoy to get the hell out of her flat and _now_ before she called the police.

In the end, Hermione didn't do anything other than stare at the door and get rather hysterically giggly. Wasn't fair, after all, that her whole entire world should come crashing down around her feet _twice_.

Should have known better, of course. She had always been able to count on Malfoy, in some twisted way. His hatred of her had been so _predictable_ after all and he'd never let her down before. Never even pretended to let up on her-

_"Your mum? Bloody hell, Granger..."_

-so why should he start now?

"Joke's on you, Hermione," she murmured to herself, pressing her fingers to her temples, "The joke's on you."

**TBC...**

I apologize profusely for any typos etc in this... it's 3 am and I have a funny feeling I don't catch many mistakes this late. :) Also I have a cold from hell. Blame the sickness, baby!


	4. Rather Than Light

Title: Atonement

Author: Edie

Part: 4? (technically Chapter Three, but I realized that the prologue is a part too and shouldn't be excluded. lol)

Rating: R

Chapter Summary: Hermione and Draco adjust to living together; Draco cannot escape his past. Please note that this chapter mentions rape, although it does not directly involve either Draco or Hermione.

Summary: Hermione has turned her back on the wizarding world but one person has not turned his back on her.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Title chapter stolen blatantly from Richard Crashaw's "But Men Loved Darkness Rather Than Light."

Author's Notes: Warning you all as well, this chapter is long. Even longer than this, actually, but I decided to split it into two parts. This chapter is over 6000 words. 15 pages on Word. Go me!

**Chapter Three: Rather Than Light**

"_The world's light shines, shine as it will_

_The world will love its darkness still_

_I doubt though when the world's in hell,_

_It will not love its darkness half so well."_

- Richard Crashaw's "But Men Loved Darkness Rather Than Light"

When Hermione's alarm clock woke her at 1:45 in the afternoon, she wasted no time in scrambling out of bed. Pushing her mother's blanket to the end of the bed and causing Crookshanks no little amount of disruption, she donned her housecoat and rushed out of her bedroom.

Her flat was empty; she had known it would be. Malfoy had awoken her earlier that morning through no fault of his own. He had tried to be quiet, Hermione was well aware of that, but she was so unused to having anybody else home with her that she had been especially sensitive to noise. She had lain in her bed, ears strained for any magical type of sounds, but Malfoy strangely seemed to respect her insistence that he should not use his wand. He had cursed his way through his morning routine, damning everything from the faucets to the shower to the fridge. He had left at 8:15, Apparating from the hallway outside of the door with a fantastic _pop_ that she had heard all the way from her bedroom. The idea of Malfoy actually _working_ had kept her awake until almost nine but eventually she had found sleep again.

Now, however, she was up and curious.

Stealthily, although she knew not why she might use it alone as she was, she crept down the hallway and peaked at the closed door to her spare room- Malfoy's new bedroom, she reminded herself with a cringe. And how strange a thought that was! Pausing before the door, she wondered for the millionth time _why_ he was there, so far from everything he knew. Awkward times in his world, indeed. Sounded like a bunch of drivel to her. Holding her breath, she reached out and cautiously pushed the door open. It swung inwards, hinges screaming in protest, and Hermione found herself staring into something she never thought she'd have reason to see.

Malfoy's bedroom.

Sniffing, she supposed it looked rather ridiculous. She didn't know how he had managed to move everything in over the course of one of her measly shifts- house elves probably, the bloody prat- but that was beside the point. The point was that Malfoy simply had a lot of belongings- too many entirely to shove into a room the size of this. His bed alone (king sized, she thought, and covered with an expensive looking forest green duvet) took up most of the available space. The rest he'd used up by cramming a desk so ornate as to almost be ostentatious into the corner. That was what caught Hermione's interest.

Skirting around his bed (and ew! Bed of Malfoy!), Hermione padded over to it and gazed with something unsettlingly close to excitement at its contents. Books, so many beautiful books, were neatly stacked on top of it and her fingers itched to peruse them. Most of them were leather bound and expensive; the one she picked up revealed itself as a first edition. She was careful to put it back as everything in his room seemed to be rather insanely neat- might have been even more careful if she wasn't certain that Malfoy would be in her room snooping around as soon as he returned home.

Sighing to herself, she pulled open the desk drawer and found a stack of neatly arranged notes on… Arithmancy? It had been so long since she'd seen anything to do with the subject that she had to lean closer but… well. Looked like Arithmancy to her. Was Malfoy some sort of curse-breaker then? The idea made her chuckle a little, at least until she was hit by such an unexpected pang of envy that she slammed the drawer hastily shut. If Malfoy had an O.W.L. in it, what did it matter to her?

Arithmancy was _her_ subject. Bloody hell.

Hermione was frowning when she stepped away from his desk and was frowning still when she peaked under his bed. She thought that maybe she was being unreasonable- if Malfoy had meant to kill her, he certainly could have done it already- but it was better to be safe than sorry. Underneath his bed revealed nothing, save for the ashtray from her living room that he seemed to have pilfered and hidden away, and Hermione gave up her search with a huff.

Returning to the doorway, she gave his room one last glance over. Malfoy was up to something. She could sense it.

* * *

Living with Malfoy turned out not to be such a bad experience at all, largely because Hermione quite simply did not see him. He was gone by the time she rose for work and in bed when she came home. On the rare occasions when she thought he still might be awake, his door was always closed and, despite the light shining from underneath it, he never gave her any other indication of being up- and she most certainly wasn't going to go looking for any.

However, out of sight out of mind wasn't exactly the case as Draco Malfoy's presence there was more than apparent. It had been nothing but little things at first: he had taken over all of the best shelves in the linen closet and had shoved all of her bathing things under the sink so that he could line up his various collections of shampoo and conditioner along the rim of her tub. She had rectified that by accidentally bleaching four of his prized black hand towels and knocking his favourite shampoo bottle into the toilet repeatedly each afternoon until her things made an unannounced appearance back in their proper places.

That had been it for the first week but, as Malfoy grew more comfortable, his changes to her flat became bigger. He rearranged her cups in the cupboard (by size and colour), moved the plates without telling her, and hauled the television set to the opposite wall. Not to be outdone by Malfoy's neatness, Hermione had reorganized the cutlery (by brand and ornamental design), lined up the boxes in her pantry, and wasted entirely too much of her pay cheque on a nicer coffee table.

The results of their competitive… organization meant two things. Firstly, Hermione's flat was cleaner than it had ever been. Secondly, somehow without her noticing it, her flat ceased to simply be her own. Little bits of Malfoy were simply all over the place.

That might have been a harder pill to swallow if Malfoy had had an easier time adjusting to life in a Muggle flat. He had never given any _real_ indication that he was having trouble but Hermione was quick and evidence of that was _everywhere_.

The oven seemed to be giving him particular problems. The first time he had tried to use it, he had left the burner on all day and had practically given her a heart attack when she had arrived home from work to see it glowing red in the darkness of her kitchen. The garbage can under the sink needed emptying more than usual, largely due to his failed attempts at cooking. She wasn't sure what he'd been eating but she did know that he was wasting a large amount of her food, a fact that both angered her and caused her a great deal of stress- until an envelope of money had turned up on top of the counter. Once, he had forgotten a copy of _A Guide to Muggle Inventions_ near the fridge; after that she had taken pity on him and had begun to leave out the leftovers of her lunches.

Malfoy seemed to take that as a sign of some sort of truce and that had started what Hermione irritably thought of as Napkin Communication. He had left her the first note, a hastily scrawled, _"What are all the strange boxes in the living room? Tell me immediately or I cannot be held responsible for smashing them_" and had stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. Fearing for the safety of her computer and television, Hermione had written back exactly what they were… four times and with diagrams. Malfoy seemed to be able to understand the television set but the idea of a computer escaped him entirely and he had dismissed it in another note as "_a typical Muggle waste of time_".

Most of their letters contained threats ("_Stop eating my food, Malfoy, or I'll poison it"_ to, _"If you use my brush one more time, Muddy, I'll ram the hairball down your throat while you're sleeping."_) but others were more idle and inquiring (_"Must work you like a slave down at that diner, Granger. I would never let them work **me** like that. Malfoys simply do not do labour- that is what peasants are for. Are you always going to be on nights?_" to "_If it's not beneath you to do so, do you think you could possibly feed Crookshanks tonight? I don't know what you've done to worm your way into the heart of **my** cat but you better have the best of intentions because the silly beast actually cried all morning after you left- perish the thought!"_).

Hermione would never admit to checking the fridge each night. Nor would she admit to sneaking into his room and devouring his pile of books (half done _A History of the Malfoy Line_ of all ridiculous things). She half thought he was doing the same, as she was quite certain that she had not left Jane Urquhart's _The Stone Carver_ anywhere near her bedside table. She would never say that any of their indirect interaction made her feel any less hostile towards him… but…

But she was woman enough to admit that when she finally _did_ see him that it might have dulled her reaction time a little. Might have stopped her from tugging off her shoe and whipping it at his obnoxiously blond head.

As far as interactions went, it hadn't been much. It had been especially late as Hermione had stopped for cigarettes on the way home from work and had probably been approaching four o'clock in the morning. She had run up the stairs like usual and had been more than startled to see Malfoy in the hallway outside of her- _their_- flat, wand in one hand and a distracted look on his face. He hadn't seen her initially and probably wouldn't have at all, but she had said, "Malfoy!" and he had turned. She had been shocked at his appearance: all jagged lines and too pale skin; a look of such desperation in his eyes. He had looked at her for sometime- had looked _through_ her, maybe even- until she had grown uncomfortable and moved towards him. One step was all she got, however. Before she could come any closer, he had Apparated away from her, gone to God only knew where.

She had been upset by it for reasons she couldn't understand; had even waited up until nearly six for him to return. Before going to bed, she had written, "_Malfoy, what the hell?"_) on a napkin, sticking it on the fridge in their normal fashion. The next morning, the note had been removed and there hadn't been an answer.

Hermione told herself she wasn't curious. She told herself it didn't matter where strange sons of Death Eaters went in the middle of the night. Actually managed to convince herself that she had imagined his haggard appearance. She only wished she could be so easily swayed on how she felt about the upcoming week, of which she had four days off in order to adjust her sleeping schedule so that she could waitress mornings.

Four days of Malfoy. Four days of _hell_.

* * *

The man thought his job was entirely pointless.

Idly swirling the straw around in his glass of pop, he watched the girl flit around the grimy interior of the diner, dropping off plates here and removing used ones there. He couldn't figure Master out, and not from any lack of trying. Wouldn't ask Master, of course, especially now that Master had seen fit to cut back the amount of time he had to spend watching the boring chit. He had thought to maybe suggest that there was no real point in watching her at all. Girl had no friends, no lovers, no _anything_ as far as he could determine and surely he would be more than useful in his old position…?

But surely Master had a reason. He had eluded once that it was integral for someone to always be there… just in case. Hadn't asked what just in case meant. Master was too unpredictable.

Sighing, the man leaned back in the booth and had to repress a smile as the girl glanced up at the clock. She was almost off and he could tell by the way her steps were slowing that she was tired. Master had said he needn't watch her for the next four days. Had said to go spend time with his wife and to leave the girl bloody well alone. It surprised him a little bit, but he found himself feeling sorry for her. Reminded him a little of what he'd always imagined the daughter he'd never had to be like. Only too sad by half.

Master had said he thought the girl was crazy but the man did not think so. Master had seemed distracted, muttering on about some strange contraption called a dishwasher.

The man had thought it wise not to point out that there were some who thought Master was crazy as well.

* * *

Hermione spent the majority of her first day off avoiding her flat. She'd gotten up at 9:30 am (an ungodly time that left her feeling extremely tired and a little irritable but a safe time as Malfoy had already gone) and had spent the morning at the library, doing nothing but browsing the shelves and perusing books she'd already read. She'd met her father for lunch and had sat in the park for over an hour afterwards, despite the chill in the air that signaled the arrival of fall. By the time 4:00 had rolled around, she figured she had dawdled enough. She was going to have to face Malfoy sometime.

Doughnuts had seemed like an appropriate ice breaker (she was craving a bagel anyway) so she stopped for that on the way home. It was a very vague memory but she thought she recalled Narcissa Malfoy sending her son boxes of sweets at Hogwarts; she had selected him chocolate ones because of that. When she realized what she was doing (picking out sweets for Malfoy! For fuck's sake!), she almost tossed the box of them in the nearest trash bin but… well, _everybody_ liked doughnuts and maybe if she got him on some sort of sugar high he'd tell her what the bloody hell he was really doing in her flat.

Armed with her plan and her box of doughnuts, Hermione felt more than prepared when she stomped up the stairs and flung open the door to her flat. She was ready to do battle with charming words and sweet Gryffindor tactics. She was not ready to almost smack into Draco Malfoy, who was standing at the end table near the door and barking orders to her answering machine.

"You will answer me when I speak to you!" he was saying, prodding at the machine threateningly with his finger, "Your precious little mistress isn't home right now and I will torture you if you don't. I'll throw you right out the bloody window, you great big piece of junk, and-"

He stopped abruptly when he heard Hermione; frowned when he saw her clutching a box to her chest and looking like she might flee. Trying to save face, Draco puffed out his chest and stood a little taller. Tried to sound surly when he said, "This… _thing_ is insufferably rude."

Hermione blinked and glanced from Malfoy to the machine and back. "Err… it's a machine, Malfoy. Machines can't _emote_."

Malfoy looked unsure, which was a look she wasn't used to seeing on him. Sighing, she skirted around him, took a steadying breath, and removed her coat.

"What makes you think it's insufferably rude?" she asked, trying to humour him.

"The bloody thing babbles at will, that's what, but it won't reply when spoken to. I have told it repeatedly that I do not wish to dine with it and that I am not particularly fond of oatmeal cookies. Also, it seems to believe it has more than one personality. Just this morning it was referring to itself as Marnie but right before you came into the door it sounded like a man. Wouldn't tell me his name, though. I even _threatened_ it."

Hermione tried and failed not to chortle. Hanging up her coat, she made a big show of moving to the coffee table to drop her box and not looking at a very put out Malfoy. So far she thought everything was going well. Malfoy seemed churlish but that was nothing new. Her doughnuts would win him over, he could explain what he was doing here, and then she could kick him out. Nice and easy.

Carefully, she tried to figure out the best approach to her current situation. If she laughed, Malfoy would get huffy and then she would never get to the truth, not to mention the massive insult exchange that would ensue. She was tired; it was her day off and she didn't particularly feel like going there. However, if she was patient…

"It isn't alive, Malfoy," she said as reasonably as possible, "It's an answering machine. When someone calls on my telephone, which is that machine over-"

"I know what a telephone is, Granger," he snapped, sitting down on the couch on the cushion farthest from her, "I wasn't born yesterday."

"As I was saying," she continued, trying not to feel irritated by his tone, "when someone calls me on the telephone and I'm not home, the call is put through to the machine. That way, they can record a message and I can get back to them. It's not alive. What you're hearing is a recording. That's why they don't talk back. They can't actually hear you."

Malfoy scowled at her but at least seemed to consider what she said. Scooting as far away from him as she could, Hermione stared at him from the corner of her eye. He looked tough; almost as bad as he had the other night. She wondered when the last time he'd slept was. She wondered a lot of things.

Forcing herself to keep quiet on that, she grabbed the box off the table and extended it to him with a cordiality that made her want to vomit.

"Doughnut, Malfoy?" Complete with a sweet smile. Make her puke.

He looked at the box like it contained the poisoned food she'd threatened him with earlier. Looked also like he didn't want to ask what he said next.

"What's a doughnut, Granger?"

"Sweets. A pastry with icing."

Flipping open the box, she brandished one with vanilla icing and sprinkles. Took a big bite of it just to prove it was good to eat. Malfoy watched her for a moment or two, probably waiting to see if she'd drop dead, and then grabbed up a chocolate one quick as lightning. His first bite was little more than a nibble and she watched him with something akin to dread. After his initial swallow, he shot her something that was almost a smile before turning back to the television and ignoring her completely.

Alright, thought Hermione, so far so good. At this rate, they'd be bosom buddies in no time.

Except for the fact that after their brief doughnut exchange things got awkward and fast. Malfoy was watching reruns of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_; Hermione couldn't bring herself to concentrate on it. Every single part of her was too aware of the young man beside her; was waiting for him to hex her or… something. And even that aside, even if she hadn't known he was there, did he have to wear so much _cologne_? It made it impossible to entirely ignore his presence.

Malfoy, however, was not one to leave a situation awkward and out of his control for long. Around a mouthful of doughnut, he snapped, "Stay the hell out of my room, Granger."

Hermione thought her eyelid twitched. "You stay the hell out of mine. I know you were in there reading my books. You could at least put them _back_."

"Like I'd read your stupid Muggle books."

"Like I'd read _A History of the Malfoy Line_." And… crap. Obviously she was a little rusty when it came to sparring.

Malfoy immediately looked smug. Smashed his face all up and everything. It occurred to her out of nowhere that if he just tried looking _normal_ once in awhile, he might not be unattractive.

"_A History of the Malfoy Line_, eh? Wouldn't have pegged you for a fan of that one," he said a little maliciously and oh but wasn't he having fun with this, "How did you like the chapter on my great grandfather? Now there was one malevolent fucker."

She ignored that and passed him another doughnut, hoping that food would shut him up. Actually tried harder to pay attention to the show.

"_Buffy_, Malfoy?"

He shrugged. "Not a bad show, once you watch a little of it. Better than the other drivel you people watch. I like Spike. Poor git is really having a hard time of it, what with the Scoobies and their constant exclusion of him. I don't know what he ever did wrong, anyway. Has saved Buffy _hundreds_ of times and from some nasty looking beasties too."

Hermione _did_ laugh at that. "Typical! He's killed how many people and you think he's cool!"

Something in that line seemed to bother Malfoy. She knew it the second it slipped out of her mouth. He scowled at her and really seemed to mean it, before turning up the volume, finishing his doughnut, and going for a cigarette. Sighing, Hermione followed suit. It didn't occur to her for a good couple of inhales how _odd_ everything was, she and her supposed nemesis sitting side by side on the couch bickering about a television show like a couple of old friends. She must have been lonelier than she thought.

Quick to ruin it all, the next thing out of her mouth was, "Why are you really here, Malfoy? Spare me all that rubbish about the Ministry and how _awkward_ the wizarding world is for you these days."

"That isn't rubbish," he told her, ostentatiously blowing smoke from his cigarette in her face, "That's the truth." Or at least a damn good part of it.

"And why should it be awkward for you? Obviously you got out of being a Death Eater. Survived the Malfoy Manor Massacre."

"Doesn't that just roll of your tongue." And he sneered. "And I didn't just _get out_ of anything, Granger, so don't talk about things you can't understand."

But Hermione was on a roll. "And where were you going the other night at four in the morning?"

Draco seemed surprised by that. She thought for a second he was going to choke on his inhale. A look of pure panic flashed across his face, only to disappear so fast that Hermione thought she might have imagined it.

"You saw me?" Slowly and carefully.

She was puzzled. "Yeah… I called out to you and you looked and then _poof_! Off you went!"

Malfoy broke eye contact and began to fiddle with the filter of his cigarette. It seemed to be a nervous habit, pushing at it with his thumbnail, and it seemed so out of character for him that Hermione immediately took notice.

"How did I look?" he asked eventually, still not looking at her.

"What do you mean?" she shot back, confused and frustrated, "How should you have looked? Tired. You looked tired and… panicked. Have you been sleeping at all, Malfoy?"

That flash again. Just a quick tightening of his features. Hermione blinked and almost burnt herself ashing her cigarette. Malfoy was silent for so long that she almost repeated herself. But then he was on his feet, glaring down at her.

"It's none of your business if I've been sleeping. It's none of your business where I go at night. And it most certainly isn't your business why I 'got out' of things."

That said, Malfoy turned around and stalked to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Draco was angry at himself. Furious even. He was bollixing everything up, had quite possibly ruined everything he had ever tried. But this was too important; _this_ was his very sanity. And Granger, Mudblood though she might be, was the only one who had caught on even a little. The only one who had seen him… seen _it_.

Groaning, he clutched his head in his hands and flopped back dramatically onto his bed. He didn't know how long he had hidden in his room like a great big coward but he figured it might have been quite awhile. He had surely missed the end of his _Buffy_ episode, which was irritating enough, but he had also missed supper if the alluring smells wafting under his door were any indication.

He knew what he had to do, however, and the thought made him want to Avada Kedavra himself post haste. He was going to have to suck up his almighty pride, go out there, and apologize for his little hissy fit. Go out there and make nice with Granger. Otherwise the weeks he had spent in self induced Muggle hell would all be for naught. She'd kick him out in a heartbeat and then where would he be? Back in that empty Manor going crazy, no doubt. She was already doing her job quite nicely, being the only one who had caught him in the act. So. The fault was his own. He could admit that.

Really, he could.

Grumbling to himself, he got up off the bed and exited his bedroom. He'd faced Voldemort, for Merlin's sake. Surely he could face an angry Gryffindor.

Draco found Hermione on the couch where he'd left her, only she had changed into her ridiculous pajamas and had wrapped herself up in the quilt she kept in her bedroom while she was at work. She was watching a show he did not recognize and did little more than send him a supercilious glance to acknowledge his presence. He found himself glaring at her merely for existing and had to remind himself firmly of his original purpose for going out there in the first place.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," he muttered, glaring instead at a stain on the carpet. Disgusting. The whole bloody flat.

Hermione looked at him full on then, surprise etched on her face. Her mouth even fell open. Draco had to bite his lip so as not to make derogatory fish jokes.

"Did you just… apologize?" she spluttered.

He shrugged and sat down next to her. So far so good. And the box of doughnuts was still on the coffee table, which was even better.

Snagging one, he explained, "I don't talk about a lot of things, Granger."

Obviously she had done some thinking while he had been… not hiding because she said, "I don't think it matters, Malfoy. You owe it to me. Otherwise I might think you're here simply to get me to shag you so you can brag about how far I've fallen to all of your stupid wizard friends."

Draco almost choked on his doughnut. _Shag_ her! He could admit to himself that she had improved in appearance over the last six years; had filled out at the very least. But _shag_ she of the bushy hair? Unlikely.

"Shag you!" Apparently his tone was insulting because she was glowering at him again. Right. He was trying to _not_ brass her off. "I've never shagged a Muggle before."

Sharing. All girls liked sharing and Hermione apparently was no different. She lit up at that, curiosity even making her smile a little.

"Never, Malfoy?" she asked, leaning forward, "I don't believe it! Everybody always used to say that-"

"I was a sex god? Yeah, yeah, I've heard all of it. But never a Muggle."

"Why?"

"_Why_? For starters, all good pureblood boys are taught that Muggle girls have teeth down there specifically designed to bite off every single unfortunate prick that might stop by for a poke."

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then, "You do know that that is an old Muggle myth from the Victorian era used to prevent premarital sex, don't you?"

Draco shrugged. "It's obviously balderdash anyway but that aside what if I were to father a child on one of them? It would be a _complete_ abomination."

He thought she made an effort not to be annoyed by that comment. Sighing, she tightened the blanket around herself and shook her head.

"You haven't changed one bit."

"You don't know me," he pointed out. Promising himself he wouldn't add it, he promptly added, "Have you ever _washed_ that blanket? It looks positively filthy."

She definitely bristled at that. "It was my mother's. I can't wash it. Then it'll be…"

Draco found himself thinking of his father and nodded simply because he _got_ that. Sighing himself, he decided to let her win this round. Decided that maybe he did _owe_ it to her. And Malfoys were indebted to no one.

"There are some people who think I was involved in the massacre," he conceded, "That I leaked information."

"Did you?" Eyes gently inquiring.

"Let's just say it didn't go as planned."

"Why did you do it?" she asked softly.

He shook his head at that and resolutely vowed not to think of it himself. There were some things not worth remembering; some things that were too hard to dwell on. Instead of answering, he grabbed the remote from her and turned up the volume.

"So what are we watching?" he asked.

"The news," she replied.

Draco nodded and settled back into the couch. Strange, he thought, but he had just spent awhile… _visiting_ with Granger and, well…

Well, he wasn't going to think of that either.

* * *

_"Have at her, boy." An encouraging shove in the direction of an open cell. "Take your turn with her. I think you'll find this one particularly luscious." _

The air in the dungeons was dank; his skin felt clammy. His hair, where it brushed against his neck, felt moist and sticky. His palms were damp and he **didn't want to go in there**.

"What's the matter, boy?" The voice was mocking, always mocking. Another shove in the direction of the cell. "Not man enough for this?"

He stiffened and let himself be pushed. Couldn't disappoint. Not this time. Not after the other day. He was a humiliation to his father and he couldn't turn him down now. Head held high, he shook off his father's hand and marched into the cell. The door slammed shut behind him and he saw his father's retreating figure out of the corner of his eye.

Just the two of them now. Alone. The young woman was in the corner, back to him. **Just get it over with**. She had curly blonde hair, hanging dirty down her back. He thought in passing that it was rather bushy and just like-

He was the farthest away from having an erection he'd ever been.

**Make it quick. Get it done. Leave.**

Heaving a shaky sigh, he took a step towards her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She spun around at the contact, eyes huge and wild. Stifled a cry on the palm of one filthy hand.

"Have you come with my baby?" her voice was high pitched and hopeful. He realized abruptly that if he used the child to his advantage she would do anything but… but…

But the baby was dead. Fuck, the baby. Black spots clouded his vision and his grip on her shoulder lessened. He thought for a perilous moment that he might be sick.

"Your baby's dead." His voice was harsh but he didn't care. The woman knew about the baby anyway. The woman had **seen** it.

Beneath his hand the woman shuddered. Turned her face away. He noticed the look in her eyes and thought to himself that she was so far gone… so **dead** herself. Without looking at him, she stood up and moved to the tiny cot shoved in the corner of her cell. Laid down and stared at the ceiling. Waited for the inevitable.

He panicked. Absolutely panicked. The moment was upon him. It was his **turn**. Everybody else had done it. He couldn't afford to be soft, not after everything, and his father would be so disappointed in him. Gulping, he moved to the cot and sat beside her. The blankets were soiled and he didn't want to touch them. Almost experimentally, he reached out and palmed her breast. She wasn't as far gone as he thought and sobbed at the contact. He pulled his hand away as if burned.

"I have to do this," he told her guiltily, "This is a test. All of this is a test for me. They'll **kill** me if I fail."

She shook her head in denial and sobbed again.

"I don't want to. I don't want to anymore than you do. But…" He trailed off and looked at her. The woman had seen her child killed the evening before; had seen her husband fall a week before that. He didn't **want** to feel anything towards her and her situation. She was nothing but a fucking Mudblood but it had been a **baby** and… "We don't normally take prisoners, you know. I'm… sorry that you got to be our first."

"My baby," she moaned.

Fucking hell, he couldn't do it. Hair like Granger's and **used** already by so many fucking men. Couldn't force himself on her. He might have been a malicious bastard but he **could not**-

Swearing, he leapt off of the bed and away from her. In the process, his robes fell open and… she saw it. Tucked into the inner pocket, his wand caught a shaft of moonlight from the barred window. How long had she been there, in the dungeons? Long enough to have come to believe in magic anyway. She was off the bed in a shot and kneeling at his feet, grabbing at his legs and clutching at his waist with grimy hands. Eyes wide with a sane sort of insanity.

"Do it," she cried, voice rough for purpose, "Please, God, just do it."

Clawing at him. At his robes. He was confused and tried to stumble backwards. Thought she meant for him to free her, to Side Along Apparate her right out of there and he couldn't do that either.

"Let you go?" Now he was the one who sounded high pitched.

But the woman was shaking her head, unwashed blonde curls bouncing. She was crying in earnest, tears streaking clean patches down her face. He thought she was mad and tried once again to move out of her reach but her fingers locked onto his leg and she was begging.

"End it," she groaned, resting her face against his shoe, "Please please end it. Don't want to go back. Want my baby."

He was in denial. He was **not** a murderer. "I can't let you go. Don't you see? They'll kill me."

Her fingers pushed inside his robes and then her hands were on his wand. He snatched it away from her out of pure reflex and then she was nodding, eyes alight with hope.

"Please," she whispered, "You can end it. You can tell them I fought you. Please, don't make me face them anymore. Please don't make me…"

She trailed off and looked down, still kneeling at his feet. And Draco Malfoy stared at her and thought of Harry Potter. Thought of the other side of the war. Thought of his father **with** this woman; thought of his mother. Thought of that baby, of its horrible screams, and something inside of him snapped. If he had been a better person, perhaps, because this wasn't a Harry Potter thing to do at all. But Draco Malfoy wasn't Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy's mercy was made of entirely different stuff.

And he was **sorry** but he was already plotting. **I'm sorry, Father, but she attacked me...** No choice, really, and they wouldn't care. A pat on the back for Draco Malfoy, finally a murderer. Cleared from the whole Dumbledore fiasco. **And my son killed his first Mudblood...**

Killed his first weak defenseless **woman** because she begged and he was too much of a coward to simply free her.

Pointing his wand at her and feeling sick at the relief in her eyes, he whispered, "**Avada Kedavra**."

* * *

Draco Malfoy came awake with a start. Heart pounding, he shot up on the couch and looked around in a panic. Felt a hand grasp his arm and lashed out at it; heard as if from somewhere far away a woman gasp. Did nothing but choke on air for a good couple of minutes.

Then, the lingering smell of Hermione's supper hit him. He realized blurrily that the television was still on but the room was dark and she was sitting beside him, still clad in her quilt. Huffing a little, he shut his eyes and told himself it was over. It was not here.

"Draco?"

Must have really given her a fright if Hermione Granger was calling him by his given name.

"Draco?" Poked him this time. "Are you okay?"

He shook her hand away from him and reached for his cigarettes. She passed him the lighter.

"Just fine, Granger. Peachy. Must have dozed off, you making me watch that horrible Muggle news. Just a dream. That's all."

She was silent, regarding him in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. Then she stood and went to the kitchen. After a moment or two, he could smell the beginnings of a pot of coffee which was good because he had no intention of sleeping again for as long as he could help it.

Sighing, he reminded himself firmly that some things just should not be thought about. Inhaled deeply from his cigarette and tried not to think of curly haired Muggles with pleading blue eyes and dead babies. Told himself for the last time that some things were too horrible to ever contemplate.

Even if those things would never go away.

**TBC...**

Thank you once again for all the feedback! I _live_ for it. lol. Pretty please? With Draco on top?


	5. The Silver Answer

Title: Atonement  
Author: Edie  
Part: 5?  
Rating: R  
Summary: Hermione has turned her back on the wizarding world but one person has not turned his back on her.  
Chapter Summary: Sometimes all that's needed are a few good moments.  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Author's Notes: And I bet you all thought I'd abandoned it! Sort of a filler chapter to progress Draco and Hermione's friendship. Not big on the action or the mystery. Just a few moments between the two. Dreadfully sorry about the wait! is bad

**Chapter Four: The Silver Answer**

_"And a voice said in mastery while I strove,..  
'Guess now who holds thee?'  
-'Death!' I said. But, there,  
The silver answer rang..'Not Death, but Love.'"_

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnet I

Nothing but a blond young man whom she disliked asleep on a couch and a few scattered cries that would never be owned up to but Hermione Granger's curiosity was peaked. In fact, as far as her mood went, Hermione Granger felt the best she had in years… which she supposed was a horribly selfish thing as the result of it was Draco Malfoy's misery. That, in and of itself, was nothing new as she had once spent years trying to bring about that very end only…

Only it wasn't quite so satisfying when she wasn't the direct cause of it. A few burns from the stove aside, Malfoy had adjusted to life in her flat relatively well but she was more than certain that he wasn't adjusting well to _something_… something he obviously had no intention of sharing with her. Which was fine. All the better even. Hermione had always loved a good mystery.

It was late afternoon on her second full day off and Malfoy had yet to Apparate home from the Ministry. Crookshanks, being a lazy bugger, had curled up happily on her pillow hours ago and showed no signs of rousing. Her room looked like perfectly controlled chaos (and it was). A raincoat lay abandoned over the back of her mirror, brought out in preparation of an afternoon trip to the park that had never happened. Hermione herself was positioned cross legged on her bedroom floor, one hand on the lid of the trunk underneath her window and the other pushing fingers against her temple. Underneath her breast, her heart felt ready to hammer its way straight out of her ribcage as it always did before she opened the lid. Today, however, she hardly noticed it. She felt curiously alive; curiously invigorated. She felt like a dog with a bone.

Draco Malfoy was keeping secrets from her and, by God, she was going to figure them all out even if she had to research his past until she was eighty (which wouldn't happen, of course. Full time Muggle now or not, Hermione Granger still prided herself on being rather quick).

Chewing at her lip, she popped open the trunk and moved to lean forward on her knees. Inside, the contents smelled musty and old and, for one tiny moment, Hermione thought of backing out. Didn't like the trunk; didn't like what the trunk represented. Sternly, she told herself she had done lots of things she hadn't cared for over the years in pursuit of greater knowledge. This was no different. Bracing herself, she moved aside unread letters and tried her hardest not to glance at her photographs. Underneath it all, she found what she was looking for: a neatly arranged stack of old Daily Prophets. Her pile was arranged by date and so she had no problem at all finding the one heralding the story of the Malfoy Manor Massacre. Shifting positions so that she could lean her back against the bed, Hermione opened the paper and began to read.

The article was full of things she already knew. Skimming it, she picked out the paragraph stating the death of the prominent Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, who had fallen at the start of the battle. It had been a raid gone wrong- violence hadn't been her side's key objective so much as taking prisoners had been- but the Death Eaters gathered there had fought back. There had been fifteen high ranking deaths in total- a number that had severely weakened Voldemort's cause. An "unnamed source" had supposedly provided the information regarding the gathering; it didn't take a genius to figure out that that had been Draco.

Sighing, Hermione decided that question was definitely _why_ he had done it. Even now she could remember easily all of the Death Eater cant he had spouted at Hogwarts; could call to mind the sneer he had worn when he had first called her Mudblood. She supposed to herself that his side likely hadn't seen it coming- _her_ side either for that matter- but something must have happened between the time she had left the school and the infamous Massacre. Unfortunately, she couldn't even begin to guess what that might have been. If only Malfoy would tell her!

It was precisely at that moment that a sharp _pop_ from the hallway signaled the arrival of her never-quite-a-Death-Eater flat mate (and _what_ were her neighbours thinking each time they heard that? Surely the stupid git had to be worried!). Even if she hadn't been aware of it, she clearly heard the door open and then a giant crash followed by, "Bloody hell, Granger! Keep your fucking shoes out of the doorway!" She would have laughed at that, even rushed out of her bedroom to see the aftermath of a tripped Malfoy, but she was too busy trying to shove her collection of Daily Prophets back in her trunk. She heard Malfoy mumble something about a "filthy disgrace of a flat" just as she slammed the lid and then he was standing in her door.

Hermione had to stifle a gasp at the sight of him. Obviously, he had not gone back to sleep after the episode on the couch. The bags under his eyes looked almost painful and his eyes themselves looked rather pink and dry. It said a lot for how naturally good looking Malfoy was that his countenance still appeared powerful; that his smirk was still its normal flashy self. She thought she would have passed out from exhaustion long ago.

"Can I help you?" she asked when it appeared he wasn't going to do anything other than hover by her door.

Malfoy put a toe over the threshold almost tentatively, an exaggerated look of horror flitting across his face. "Not sure if I'm ready for the responsibility of being the first man in your bedroom, Granger."

"Then don't come in," she snorted. And, because some sort of misplaced pride demanded it, "And you wouldn't be the first anyway."

One blond eyebrow rose in apparent shock. "Really! Well, good for you, Granger! I always thought a decent shag would go a long way in removing that stick up your arse."

"Bugger off, Malfoy," she growled.

He smirked at her, hands flying up in mock defense. "Hey, don't take your sexual frustration out on me! Just because _I_ discovered my sexual prowess back at Hogwarts doesn't mean-"

"You're a manwhore, Malfoy. Nothing but a slag!" A very tiny part of her felt like smiling.

Before it could happen, she rolled her eyes and turned her back on him, intent on shoving Crookshanks off her bed so that she could properly make it up. Traitorous cat that he was, he opened his eyes lazily, saw Malfoy, and bounded off the bed with an excitement that contradicted his almost ten years. For his part, Malfoy looked rather embarrassed by the cat's attention. Tried to move out of his way and everything. Crookshanks, however, was not one to be deterred. Purring loudly enough for Hermione to take offense, he tangled himself in between Malfoy's ankles.

"Granger! Control your beast," he ordered. Then, after a moment of scowling disdainfully at her cat, Malfoy snuck a glance at her and quickly bent to pat him between the ears.

"And I repeat," Hermione said, fed up with her cat's disloyalty as much as with the general sight of Draco, "can I help you?"

He looked up at her, one white eyebrow cocked, and scooped up Crookshanks. "Yes, you can. _Buffy_ is on in fifteen minutes and I do not wish to be disturbed. You haven't been following it and I refuse to waste the best hour of television explaining the intricacies of the plot to you."

"It's my TV set, Malfoy. What would you do if I hid the remote?"

"Find it and beat you with it," replied he, smiling at her rather dryly, "I hear it's an excellent Muggle weapon."

"Get out of my room." _Amazing_ comeback line. Ugh. "I don't bloody well care about the intricacies of _Buffy_. I have better things to do. In fact, I think I'm going to read."

"_History of the Malfoy Line_ is on my dresser. Shall I get it for you?" And up went that eyebrow, even higher than before. She thought rather vengefully of shaving them off when he was sleeping.

Smiling innocently, Hermione said, "Finished it this morning, actually. Would you like _The Stone Carver_ for later?"

Malfoy actually looked flustered for a minute. Cuddling her cat closer, he snapped, "I didn't read your bloody Muggle book. The beast and I will be in the living room. Don't bother us."

That said, Malfoy stuck his nose in the air and, with Crookshanks looking over his shoulder, stomped out. Hermione huffed and turned to her bookshelf, telling herself that reading would help the stress headache she could already feel forming. She glanced at it quickly in dismay. Was that Carlisles's _The Idealists_ in the space left for Brooks's _Year of Wonders_? Surely, she couldn't have…?

"Bloody pureblooded ingrate," she muttered to herself, dropping before the shelf to fix the mess Malfoy had made of her system.

It was exactly one hour and five minutes later when Malfoy spoke again. Hermione, still in her bedroom, had worked herself into quite a rage. At least _she_ attempted to keep his bookshelf organized when she snooped through it! Didn't Malfoy realize she had spent weeks working on an organizational system? Of course he didn't, bleeding prat… Therefore, she wasn't at all in the mood for what he had to say.

"Granger!" he shouted from the living room, voice pitched and whiny, "I'm bloody hungry. What are you making me for supper?"

Hermione dropped her copy of _The Harbrace Anthology of Literature_, which narrowly missed her toe, and swore. Mess up her books and order her around like his personal supper cooking maid? Bloody unlikely! In fact, who did he think he was to begin with? Barging into her flat- into her _life_- like some great big… thing that barged and commanding her about like he was some sort of… some sort of-

"Neanderthal!" she all but screeched, hopping around her poor dropped book and storming into her living room. Malfoy was draped over her couch, all comfortable grace, and still had her damned cat cozy in his lap. He smirked at the sight of her. "That's all you are! All of your ideals are outdated. You're as bigoted as you were six years ago and… and…" And, because it was so very shiny and out there, "Your hair still looks ridiculous!"

That one was a lie, obviously. Hermione, in fact, would have killed for hair as naturally fine and manageable as his. However, that one seemed to hit home. Gasping in horror, he threw his hands to his head and patted at it.

"Take that one back, you bushy haired wench! Like you would know _anything_ about hair, anyway!" A few more pats to ensure that his hair was as perfect as he remembered it, then, "And at least when I talk to you, I don't make up words!"

Hermione barely resisted the urge to smack her head against the wall in confused frustration. Teeth gritted, she asked, "And what word would that be?"

"Neanderthal," he replied, casually examining a fingernail, "I agree it is fun to say but Merlin only knows where you pulled that one from."

She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. "I didn't make it up, you inbred wretch. Neanderthal comes from the technical term _Homo neandertalensis_ and refers to an early species of mankind. There is some debate as to whether or not they were _direct_ relatives of modern man, but that is neither here nor there. The reason I used it in this instance is because they were thought to have been overly brutish and primitive, or not as culturally advanced as _Cro-Magnons_ which you would probably recognize as early modern man if you knew _anything_. However, I am not sure that that is entirely true as it is worthwhile to note that they were the only ones who had any sort of funeral rituals at that time. For Heaven's sake, Malfoy, don't you _read_?"

Malfoy looked rather flabbergasted by her speech. Actually paused his critical analysis of his nail. After a moment of deliberation, he replied, "Malfoys aren't descendants of anything overly brutish or primitive. In fact, I'm not sure that any of the wizarding families are. Sounds like rubbish to me. Entirely Muggle, I assure you."

"We all come from the same place, Malfoy!" she exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, "And, back to the point. I'm not cooking you supper. As a matter of fact, I'm leaving. I've wanted to go to the park all day and now seems to be as good of time as any. Try not to burn down the building while I'm gone."

That said, she spun on her heels and returned to her bedroom, leaving Malfoy sputtering about bloody ovens and house elves. Unfortunately, he seemed to be hell bent on bothering her as he was up off the couch and after her in a split second.

"I'm coming too," he announced, "You can't expect me to stay here. You know I can't work the oven."

"There isn't anything at the park to eat," she pointed out, "And for the last time, stay out of my bedroom!"

He smiled at her, almost genuinely, and leaned against the wall. "No. And I think I will come. Sounds almost… pleasant. Your flat smells odd; I'll be happy to escape the stench."

"Do you live to torture me?"

He shrugged and waited for a better response.

Sighing, she glanced around her room and shrugged herself. "Oh fine. Just give me a second to get ready. And I don't want you complaining about a single thing the whole time."

"Complain?" Malfoy echoed, apparently horrified, "Why, I'd never!"

Fifteen minutes later and Draco was by the door, shoes on and appropriately clad in Muggle clothes. Chin held high, he made sure to pose himself by the door with a sort of cavalier indifference that Granger surely wouldn't be able to miss. Hoped his look said how much he hated Muggle pants and the itchy material of his sweater without him actually having to. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he counted to fifteen. Then twenty. Then his neck began to ache and, really! Malfoys didn't _wait_ for anybody!

"What the bloody hell is taking you so long?" he called, sounding appropriately irritated. He smiled at himself. Really, he was quite good.

Except Granger seemed to be ignoring him.

Sighing in exasperation, he pushed off the door and stalked to her room, wholeheartedly expecting her to be leaning in front of the mirror attempting to tame her wild hair or doing something equally frivolous and feminine. But, well, this _was_ Granger after all and he found nothing of the like. Instead, she was crouched in front of her bookshelf, coat on, apparently trying to make a decision over which book to bring. She glanced up when he entered.

"It's only that I've read them all," she told him without a trace of apology in her tone, "Some of them more than once, even."

"Of course you have," he sighed.

Shaking his head, he exited her room and went into his own instead. It took only a moment of perusing his shelf to find one that might interest her. Book in hand, he stalked back to her room and threw it rather carelessly onto her bed. She gasped and hopped to her feet, yanking it off of her covers and glaring at him disapprovingly.

"Don't throw books," she ordered. Then, after examining the cover, "_Durmstrang: A History_?"

Draco shrugged. "Remembered you always going _on_ about _Hogwarts: A History_. Thought you might like something to compare it too, although both schools are so similar as to make the read a rather tedious one."

"You've read _Hogwarts: A History_!" Surprised, despite herself. "Why do you have a book about Durmstrang?"

"Who hasn't to the former and it was Father's dream that I might attend the latter. Can we go now?"

"Oh," she said. Looking at him for a second, Hermione added, "Would you like a book?"

"I do not read Muggle books, for the millionth time," Draco protested, trying not to let his gaze stray with interest in the direction of her shelf.

Hermione actually laughed. "Oh please, Malfoy. Come off it. You're obviously at my books every single time I'm not here. I have just the one for you, actually!"

Grinning evilly, she went to her shelf and pulled one off of it. Smirking still, she skirted around him, pausing only to slap it against his chest. Draco was afraid to look and so he should have been. Glaring up at him was a copy of  
Johanson's and Edey's _Lucy: The Beginnings of Humankind_.

"Granger?" he called after her, chagrined to hear what sounded like her opening the door out of the flat, "Who in the hell is this Lucy bint? And I thought I already told you that Malfoys do not…"

The walk to the park took longer than it had ever taken Hermione before. First off, Draco had refused, absolutely _refused_, to lay up on what he seemed to view as life threatening hunger. She had tried to cajole him with hot dog stands- anything to keep him moving- but all of her best efforts had proved to be futile. Draco did not know what a hot dog was but he was quite certain that Malfoys did not eat them. His own whining had been cut rather humourously short by the blasting of a car horn, something that seemed almost to do Malfoy in. He'd had his wand out in no time and it had taken almost two blocks for Hermione to adequately explain the manner in which cars functioned. She had innocently asked how he could have made it to his twenty second year so _unexposed_- he had seemed offended and had told her that her flat and the hallway leading to it were more than he ever needed to see of the Muggle world.

He had contradicted everything by spending the next five minutes attempting to peer into the windows of every single parked car they passed without her noticing. She _had_ noticed, of course, and had even almost enjoyed the moment when a fire truck had driven by and she had gotten to explain that too. By the time Draco yanked her into a deli they were passing, Hermione felt sure that he must be getting caught up on his automobile knowledge, at least.

Draco ordered a sandwich composed entirely of every single type of meat under the sun. Muttering about heart attacks and cholesterol, she had order a vegetarian sandwich. He had called her a hypocritical smoker and then, brain obviously overloaded with car facts, had casually paid for both of them.

"Stopped and changed my money," he told her with a shrug, "Call it payback for those doughnuts. Bloody delicious, by the way. Think we can grab some on the way home?"

By the time they reached the park, Hermione was starting to feel ever so slightly unnerved by the fact that she and Draco had actually gone on a twenty minute walk without hexing each other. Good thing, naturally, since she didn't have a wand. Sighing, she bypassed the bench Malfoy was eyeing up and moved to her favourite spot: under a tree near the manmade duck pond smack in the centre of the park. She thought for a moment that he was going to make a stink about grass stains and was surprised when he sat down beside her without so much as a comment. Pulled his knees up to his chest and draped his arms around them casually, staring off into nothing and absolutely silent. She stared at him for awhile and then, shrugging, leaned against the tree and opened her book.

For lack of anything else to do (he _refused_ to read her outrageous Lucy book… at least in public), Draco decided to watch her. There was something in the sight of her, head tilted and curls falling in her face, that made him feel comfortable. Something about the way her nose twitched in excitement when she read a new fact that reassured him indefinitely. Time had not passed between Hogwarts and now and surely things were meant to take a turn for the better if Hermione could still sit under a tree and lose herself in her favourite pastime. He was glad for it. Her life, in his opinion, was a study on the pathetic but if she could still be like he remembered her being then perhaps things were not that bad. Perhaps she _could_ help him because…

Because hadn't the girl always liked a pet project? House elves of all bloody things!

It almost made him jump when she said, "Stop staring at me, Malfoy. It's creepy and unnatural."

Blinking, Draco jerked his gaze from her face and looked around the park, desperate for something else to be watching. He found it in a young couple cuddled on a bench not five metres away.

Voice low, he told her, "See those two there? He's having an affair. That's not his wife."

Hermione seemed puzzled by his observation. Trying to be sneaky, she tilted her book and looked over the pages at the couple. They seemed very much in love from her point of view, what with her head cradled all cozy into his shoulder.

"How do you know?" And she hated to ask.

Draco loved to answer. "The powers of deduction, my silly little Muggle. Please note that he is wearing a ring while she is not. Also, married people simply do not behave like that."

"Like what? Like they're in love? For Heaven's sakes, Malfoy, of course they do!" Then, "Perhaps she took her ring off while doing the dishes and forgot to put it back on?"

"Unlikely," he shrugged, "Shall we do another? Mother and I used to play this game at functions when I was smaller. Kept me from getting in trouble."

He had not meant to say that at all and an uncomfortable silence reigned, during which they both very obviously tried to size the other up.

Uncomfortable, he said, "I bet you that man by the pond is a wizard" at the exact same moment she said in a tiny voice, "Really? My mum and I used to play 20 Questions."

The uncomfortable silence multiplied tenfold. Hermione stared at her shoes, desperate now for a cigarette. Obviously Draco felt the same. Wordlessly, he pulled out his pack and lit her one. If she was surprised- and she was- she tried her hardest not to let it show. How odd this- she and Malfoy sitting in the park like long lost chums, telling stories of their mums. Especially since she did not talk about her mum ever, if she could help it. Behind her eyes, a slight headache began to form.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Granger," Draco admitted, "I can imagine how hard that must have been for you."

There was more he wanted to say, she could see it, and so she cut him off with, "And yours? What of yours?"

He shook his head and took a deep drag off his cigarette before replying. "Living in the Manor still. She's a little mad at me at the moment. Switching sides and all… horrible on family relationships."

Hermione wanted to ask why he had done it; wanted to accuse Narcissa of all sorts of things for punishing him for his decision. Instead, she said, "I'm sorry about your mother as well." Couldn't quite bring herself to mention Lucius.

Draco nodded awkwardly and said, "Yes well. Can't undo the past. What's done is done."

"What's done is done indeed," she echoed and lifted up her book once more.

"Did you read the part in here about the footprints at the Laetoli site? They think they're 3.6 million years old. Can you imagine that, Granger? Two people set out for a stroll practically before the beginning of _time_ and wham! Sort of thing is recorded forever."

Hermione looked up from the telephone bill she was going over and glanced at Draco, who was once again draped all over her couch although this time it was sans cat. He was holding her "dreadful Lucy book" and seemed to have become more or less absorbed by it. That was to say, of course, that she had gone through the first page with only three interruptions.

For old time's sake, she couldn't help but say, "To be correct, Malfoy, you should refer to them as Australopithecines. However, I do agree with you. There's something humbling about it, don't you think? I mean, it's bloody well impressive to think about all the people-"

"All the Australopithecines is what I'm _sure_ you meant, you sodding hypocrite."

"-who have come before us. A lifetime is so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. We're so small and it's so _overwhelming_ to think-"

"Overkill, Granger."

"Overkill? It is not! In fact, if you had read page 67 you would clearly see… Malfoy, you idiot, did you somehow ring up South Africa!"

"Do you wear this?"

This referring to one of Draco's older robes, of course. From his bed where he was folding his socks like a commoner, he sent Hermione his best scowl.

"What are you doing in my room? Get out. Don't manhandle my things."

She snorted and proceeded to _try on_ the damned thing. "Shoe on the other foot, Malfoy. You're in my room all the time when I don't want you there."

"Bet you do want me there," he said, smirking rather lewdly, "Bet you fantasize about it all the time, don't you? C'mon now, Granger. Fess up."

She looked so disgusted by the notion that Malfoy felt obliged to lodge a pair of socks at her head. She ducked it neatly and it connected with the wall behind her.

"Want you in my room? _Honestly._ I don't even want you in my flat!"

He rolled his eyes at that. "_Honestly_, yourself. Nobody ever rings you up on that tele-ma-thing but that witch of a woman your father married and you clearly have no friends. I imagine I'm absolutely smashing to be around in comparison to your cat. At least I _speak_!"

She thought it said something about how pathetic her life had become that she realized he was teasing. "You speak entirely too much, now that you bring it up. Back to my original question, please. Do you or do you not still wear these robes?"

"Those old things?" he asked, complete with a haughty stare, "Those went out of style at least two years ago."

"Hmm," was her reply. Then, smiling neatly, she exited his room with a cheery, "I'll be taking them then!"

"What?" he called after her retreating figure, "You will not! Return my clothes to me this instant! You bloody thief! We do _not_ share clothes, Granger!"

"Why not, Malfoy? I reckon you'd look smashing in a few of my skirts!"

"Smashing? I'll show you smashing, you meddling little…"

"Do you use any sort of hair products, Granger?"

"Beg your pardon?" she echoed, stopping with her spoon halfway to her mouth. The cheerios lying on top of it lurched dangerously to the left and she was forced to practically inhale the thing so as not to dribble milk all over herself. Naturally, the patented Malfoy eyebrow raise was the result.

"Hair products," he repeated slowly, "Do you use anything to try and tame the small animal that lives on top of your head?"

"Beg your pardon! Small animal! My hair isn't that bad. I don't know what all the fuss is about! Lots of people have curly hair! Look at Nicole Kidman! Hers was just like mine before she straightened it and-"

"Nicole who?" He held up a hand when it looked like she might respond. "Oh never mind. I was merely going to suggest that you might borrow mine for a bit, just to see if it makes an improvement. Just for my own peace of mind, of course. I'm not sure I can handle looking at it any longer and I'm nearly positive it'll end up not looking half bad."

Was there a compliment in all that? Hermione couldn't be sure. Self-consciously, she patted at her hair. "My mum had hair like mine. I… I'd rather not."

A large pause in which Draco examined her critically. Then, in a way that made her think that perhaps he was a little flustered, "Oh. Well, leave off then. I'm sure some blokes could get past it. Do you have anymore of that slop you're eating?"

"For the last time, Malfoy, get off your lazy arse and buy your own food!"

"Granger? How did you do that thing yesterday? When you rang up someone and then pizza arrived? I think that'll be just the thing, don't you? Beats the mush you're eating all to hell, anyway."

Nothing but a blond young man whom she disliked but Hermione Granger's curiosity was peaked. It had been the longest month of her life, of that she was sure. She did not think she had ever heard her surname said so many times in succession, or that her food had ever been consumed quite so quickly. She had been abused, insulted, and mocked more times than she could count and yet…

And yet, despite the lack of answers to her many questions, she wasn't sure that he was the worst thing that could have happened for a flat mate. She shied away from the term friends- nausea! It brought on nausea!- but, under torture, she might have admitted to the fact that she found Draco Malfoy… tolerable.

Pausing on her way to her bedroom, she rapped on his door twice. "Good night, you inbred prat."

Silence for a moment, followed up by the rustling of bedclothes. Then, "Good night, you common urchin. Try not to run the shower quite so loudly. Some of us do like to sleep in the mornings!"

She did not smile on the way to bed. She did not.


End file.
